My Fairy Godmother
by sorceress2
Summary: Rated R for shameful language, drugs, etc. ExT humor/angst. New Chapter: By Fortuna's Hand
1. On Crystal Meth Or Some Other Such Thing

"That was more than that slut deserved, anyways." Eriol muttered darkly. His best drinking buddy gave him a derisive look.

Harold was merely standing there over a half-nude woman, passed out on the streets. He looked still quite impeccable for being on crystal meth or some other such thing, expensive clothes in place and blond hair mussed only slightly. His green eyes looked extremely annoyed.

"Just tell that to the constable, old chap. I'm out." Harold, or better known as Harry, ushered Eriol into a curvaceous black luxury car and sped away with a squealing of large chrome tires. Eriol glared at the young man as they sped through the neon-lit streets of London's club district, or at least trying to pull off something that would pass as a glare through his liquor induced haze.

"She was such a whore, you know that?" Eriol asked absently. She really had been. Annalise or whatever her name was. Harry rolled his eyes. 

"Get real, Eriol. The police don't really care if she brought all this down on herself. They just care that she's out cold in the streets with no clothes, even if she did take them off herself. And you're the last one with her, so that really is a problem for you."

Eriol opened his mouth, before Harold interrupted him again.

"And don't get sick on my leather seats." 

"I won't, you bastard. Calm it." Harold laughed. The man actually laughed at him! 

"You're very drunk, Eriol. I'd better take you home." Eriol waved away his offer coolly. Drunk, was he? He could still probably do a few magic tricks to show that smug son-of-a-bitch. What was his problem anyway? 

"I'm not that drunk, Harry. Take me somewhere." Eriol was very careful not to slur his speech. Being drunk so many times did have its up sides. He was always sure that he looked all right, avoiding stumbling and careless movements, and making sure that his clothes were all in perfect order. Control was a thing that came easily to him, and he was rarely without it.

"Where do you want to go?"

"We can go to the Raven." Eriol replied. The Raven was actually a nice nightclub actually, with damn fine drinks. Harry gave him a look.

"Eriol, old boy, you don't need any more drinks to get yourself arrested or bloody indicted. What you do bloody need is to learn how to control yourself." 

"What about you, Harry?" Eriol shot back. Really, the young man could be such a hypocrite.

"You've tried every chemical substance in bloody hell and still you won't stop at finding new ones." They'd see who needed to control himself, Eriol thought darkly.

"Fuck you." Harry replied absently. Harry really was an ass sometimes, Eriol reflected as they pulled into the Raven's parking lot. He was really in no mood to put up with him.

The fuzzy haze of intoxication was one of things that he most enjoyed about it, and what he really needed now was some amoral woman to set off the night. And he was Clow, so what did he need to worry about getting in trouble? He could zap himself out of any potential trouble that might pop up. Harry called him an idiot when he was high, and Eriol really didn't care. He was going to get a girl if he had to pay for it. Reckless behavior, his pretty bottom.

"Let's go in." Harry said. "And don't fall on your face before you do, old chap." For someone who was normally so polite and refined, Harry really got an ironic, callous sense of humor sometimes. When he was drunk or on a drug-induced high, that is. Eriol rolled his eyes, and got out of the car in a fluid movement. They would see who was better at pretending that they weren't on some sort of high.

The ear shattering music and deep beat reverberated through his skull, and he had temporary thoughts about leaving. Then he decided against it, sinking deeply into his to-hell-with-it mood. It was hot in that place, far too hot for all those people to be jammed and grinding with each other in a frenzied, mindless beat. Flashes of bright, colored light shimmered on the walls, and cast their momentary reign on the many scantily clad women. There was a nice bar, too, but Harold pulled him away and set him down at one of the deep leather booths with tonic water. 

Eriol and Harry had been sitting there for only a few moments, before they started their ritual game of rating the woman. One a scale of one to ten, ten the highest and one the lowest. Eriol relaxed back into the seat, assuming an arrogant posture, and smirked at women who looked his way. Harry was less subtle. The man really ran his eyes over every one that walked by, and there were some nice ones. This was a very good club, exclusive with good service.

"That one deserves a zero." Harry said laughingly. 

"Old chap, one is the lowest you can get. She gets a negative five." Harry and Eriol laughed, the woman being a bit overweight but still insisting on wearing very skimpy clothing. Eriol had once remembered a woman commenting that they two were quite possibly the cruelest pair that she had ever seen. Of course, that had been in a drunken rage. Women really were silly sometimes.

"That was quite a hideous outfit, if you ask me. Do some women have no taste?" Eriol asked.

"No, she's just male. She hasn't any distinguishing characteristic to make her the slightest bit female, except for that spectacular bottom. And she's got a bit more facial hair than I do." Harry replied. The man had not conscience. Oh well. The woman really was ugly, anyhow. 

Eriol chuckled as a girl winked at him. She was actually quite hot, very blond and with pale blue eyes. Her entire outfit probably couldn't make one of his shirts. Really, there was a fine line between taste and a whore. He gave a half wave, and the girl brightened, heading over to his way. Oops.

"Oh, fucking bloody hell." He muttered. Women sometimes made him nervous. A lot of the time. Harold pointedly looked the other way. Fat lot of help the man was to him now, Eriol thought darkly. He tried to avert his gaze, except the girl really was getting in his field of vision. 

Eriol sank down lower in to the couch, trying to sink through the cushions, perhaps, and escape that frightening girl, except that another one incercepted her. They had a brief conversation right infront of him, about him, and the one who intercepted the blond gave him a precursory look and rolled her eyes. Now she was a piece of work. Very pale skin, brilliant violet eyes, and long, wavy black hair. He heard snatches of their conversation, and was not pleased at the way that he was being discussed. Right in front of him.

"Dear Margaret, why do you want to go after something like that?" The black-haired girl asked with the most scornful look on her face. Eriol looked at her indignantly. At least she could have referred to him as a person, not a thing. Women were purely psychotic and couldn't be understood for the life of him. At least she could have had the decency to take the conversation elsewhere, if she was going to judge him like livestock.

"I know that you might enjoy pretty men, but do you see what that one is doing with all the women who are passing?" The black-haired girl still had a faintly amused, incredulous look on her face. Then the blond Margaret answered.

"But he looks nice, and I wasn't going to go anywhere with him, anyway." The dark-haired girl gave Eriol a disdainful look. It went from the top of his head to his shoes, even though she couldn't see them. Really, some women were downright rude.

"He looks like a man slut, you mean." The dark-haired girl stated with a faint smile. Eriol was glowering at her by now, and Harold was having a hard time from laughing madly. It was really a rare event when a girl dismissed him as thoroughly as the dark-haired one did. Margaret gave a half-shrug, gave Eriol a rueful smile, as if apologizing for her friend's observation, and turned to leave.

"My apologies, madam, for looking like… was was the term you used? A man slut?" Eriol called out in his most punctilious voice. Irreversibly sarcastic, and arrogant. The dark haired girl turned with an imperial tilt of her head. She was dressed in a short skirt, black with slits at the sides, and a brilliant turqoise shirt, with quite a low back. She had beautiful legs. Large hoops adorned her ears, and a long necklace that dangled a chain into the neckline of her shirt really set it off. Her face was made up with faint shimmer around the eyes and glossy lips in a sensual curve. Tall black heels probably made her five inches taller than she really was. She looked like a model, save for the height.

The girl inclined her head briefly, yet even that motion was queenly. 

"Apologies accepted." Then she turned around gracefully, with such poise that Eriol caught himself staring. At least Harold was staring too. 

"Bloody women." Eriol muttered, then hit Harold on the shoulder when he was still staring at the girl.

"And what a feminazi." Eriol added. Harold gave him a look.

"I don't bloody well care if she is, she's hot. I'm going after her." Eriol was a bit astounded. Harry did not go after women. Women went after him, but definitely not the other way around. Before he could come up with some appropriately scathing remark, Harry stood and walked after the girl. 

After the duration of maybe some fifteen minutes, Harry came back with both girls. He had a sickeningly charming smile that all women liked, if they were sober, and gave them both a hand into the seat. Eriol stared at him hard. Harold Windsor definitely had too much of that crack cocaine, or maybe it was crystal meth. He couldn't remember. 

Harry introduced the blond, whom he seemed more interested in, as Margaret de Aquitaine, and the other one who had called him a fucking man slut was Tomoyo Daidouji. His head whipped around at that name. Tomoyo? What the hell was she doing in England, and in a club at that? 

"Good evening, Daidouji-san." Eriol said to her in Japanese. Her eyes widened momentarily, then looked amused.

"Hello, Hiiragizawa-kun. How have you been?" Margaret and Harold looked surprised, until Eriol enlightened them that he and Daidouji-san were old classmates, years ago in Japan. They nodded, then continued with an animated conversation. Old Harold was too good.

"I have done very well, Daidouji-san. And you?" He said politely. He was going to forgive her for calling him a man slut, however rude that was.

"I am quite well, thank you. And I do apologize for calling you a man slut." Eriol chuckled at her rendition of 'man slut' in Japanese. Tomoyo grinned.

"So what are you doing here? Rating the women?" Damn. She still knew him too well. But his cocky smirk at the passerby females was probably a dead giveaway.

"Guilty as charged. And you?" Tomoyo went on to speak about things, mostly what had happened in his long absence. It was pity really, that they had never really gone to know each other that well. The only reason why she recognized him so quickly was because he always had known what was on her mind, and she with him, and they would sometimes hold strange, stilted conversations that way. Sometimes it seemed that Tomoyo was the only person in the world who understood at least in part what he was like.

As the night progressed, he became gradually more relaxed with her, as he treated her as a friend, not some prospect to be seduced. She even helped him with his rating the women in their idle moments.

"Would you say, Daidouji-san, that that one gets a nine?" Tomoyo laughed.

"Like hell she is, Hiiragizawa-kun. Do you see those shoes, and more importantly, her bosom is sideways." Eriol gave an expression of defeat and replied,

"Then six it is." Back and forth, they bantered, and flirted wildly, delighting in their skills at working the crowd. Both of them were an even match, and Harold and Margaret watched with interest when they were not having their own, racy innuendo. Eriol was amusing himself by teasing her about all the men who were staring at her as they walked by, as she was exquisite. Her clothes were at the height of fashion, and she carried herself with a self-assurance that drew male and female alike. When he had made a remark about how men visualize women that they desired unclothed, Tomoyo murmured suddenly,

"A woman is staring at you like a vulture." Eriol nearly turned his head, when Tomoyo said quickly,

"Don't be a fool, Hiiragizawa-kun. If you stare back, it's a sign of interest and you should have me rate her before you look." Tomoyo was looking.

"Nice outfit, nice shoes, very pretty, you may look, Hiiragizawa-kun." She murmured. Eriol turned to look, and there indeed was an auburn haired girl, curvy and beautiful, staring at him. It wasn't even really a stare of interest, but merely one of curiosity. Odd, really. Another brunette was with her, and the brunette was talking to her. It seemed that they were having a conversation about him. 

"She looks quite interested in you, Hiiragizawa-kun. Why don't you go over and talk with her?" Tomoyo asked detatchedly. She was busy staring smokily into the eyes of a handsome man, having difficulty walking with the woman on his arm. Tomoyo laughed softly as the man nearly ran into someone. 

"Men are too easy, if you ask me." She said amusedly.

"Anyways, Hiirigizawa-kun, why don't you go over and talk with her?" Tomoyo asked again.

"But I'm too busy entertaining you, my dear." He said charmingly. Tomoyo rolled her eyes. 

"I liked your dirty lines better, Hiiragizawa-kun." Eriol merely chuckled. 

It was nearly three in the morning when Eriol got home. He had given Tomoyo a promise to call, exchanged for the number. She really was nice to be with, he reflected. Much better than the inanely chattering women he usually was around. And Harry seemed to be infatuated with Margaret. Already. He walked to his study, his favorite room, to sit and perhaps to peruse a book before retiring. It had been a tiring day. First that slut, then Tomoyo. 

While searching for a book, he heard a clatter behind him, then followed by an oops. Turning, he thought that it might be Nakuru up late again, except it wasn't.

"Who the bloodly hell are you?" he exclaimed. It was the auburn-haired girl from the club. She merely looked at him, as if she barged into peoples' houses regularly.

"Language, Eriol Hiiragizawa." She admonished good-naturedly. Eriol stared at her.

"How did you bloodly known my fucking name?" Eriol demanded, irritated. Who was she, to first come in without being invited, then admonishing him for his language?

"First, watch your language, second, you have bad manners. Oh, and yes, my name is Sara." She looked so everyday at talking to a complete stranger, not to mention in his house, scolding him for his bloody language!

"Who are you?" Eriol asked, more irritated that before, but marginally politely.

"Since you're going to be so nice about it," she said mockingly, "I'm your fucking fairy godmother." Eriol stared at her.

"Are you happy now, Eriol?" Eriol gave a half laugh, then started to choke when she pulled a fucking magic wand out of nowhere. He stared at her incredulously.

"How did you fucking pull the damn wand out of bloody nowhere?" He asked. Now he felt her magical aura. Damn, she really was what she claimed. Sara looked impatient.

"As I said, I'm you're bloody fairy godmother and you're going to fucking watch your language because I can fucking outcurse you!" Eriol sat down on his red armchair, hard. 

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked meekly. Sara nodded in approval.

"Much better, Eriol. And duh, what do fairy godmothers do?" she asked in a bubbly tone. Uh oh. She must be one of those air-headed ones. She was going to mess up his life for sure.

"I grant wishes, silly!" Sara chirped happily. "Du-uh!" Sara popped down to sit on his ottoman. She looked quite excited at the prospect of horribly messing his life up beyond repair. 

"Oh my God." Eriol stated. Sara giggled. 

"You're language is improving already!" 

"You're disturbing." Sara giggled, again, at his desultory comment. This was the end.

So, how did you like it? I sort of came up with it late one night, cramming for something. ^_^ And of course, its ExT! You guys should know me by now. Please R&R because I'll be your best friend if you do. I'll love you forever. Really, I will. 


	2. Your Wish Is My Command

Eriol stole a glance at Sara. At his fucking fairy godmother. He wanted to sink beneath the earth and simply _die_. He somehow really couldn't believe that she really was, a sluttily-dressed young woman who was not to mention a hopeless airhead. He wanted to cringe, to wince, or maybe bash his head into a wall. Where were the grandmotherly ladies who wore capes and long dresses, who were really supposed to be the fairy godmothers? No, several walls. Steel-reinforced, maybe. He really didn't want to believe it, but was convinced to the contrary when she suddenly levitated. Bloody levitated, when it took even Clow some effort to bloody levitate. And all Sara did was sit there, and chatter on mindlessly about her hair or a previous wish-receiver's hair or some other such bloody thing. Bloody women. Bloody hell. Bloody Harold. Bloody himself. If he hadn't bloody gone to the Raven, then he could have averted the whole, huge, bloody thing. 

Eriol glanced at Sara again. At least she wasn't trying to give Nakuru a heart attack, waving and inspecting her nails and sitting in midair. Now, she was chewing her gum and snapping it in an extremely obnoxious way, and twisting it around a finger. That was disgusting. He tried to concentrate on his book, ancient Solarian runes, but somehow her bloody fucking snapping gum always intruded. 

"Would you fucking stop that?" He asked, annoyed. It was bad enough that she had to follow him around constantly and try to see what wish she should grant him, but she also had to intrude into his study and distract him with her bloody gum. Wasn't it himself who was supposed to choose the wish? But nope, his fucking fairy godmother said that it was her choice, not his, you silly pooh. Oh my God, oh my God, he silently repeated to himself. It was not happening.

"Language, Eriol." Sara replied, snapping that damned gum even louder than before.

"To damnation with my language, and with your gum! Stop snapping it, and be quiet!" He roared. There was only so much a man could take. Sara blinked, as if not knowing how to react to his sudden outburst. Her face looked peeved. There was a long moment of silence, as she stared a hole through him, before the next sound came, a resounding snap of her bloody, bloody gum! 

"Stop shouting." Then Sara went back to painting her toenails. In midair. With an array of nail polishes and other assorted nail paraphernelia also floating around her. Eriol thought that he was going to burst a blood vessel. He thought his face was probably very red.

"I am not bloody--!" Eriol snapped his teeth shut with a click when he realized that he was shouting. And there wasn't a bloody thing to be done about it. He sat there and fumed, impotent. He especially hated feeling impotent. 

"And don't sulk, kitten." Eriol thought that two blood vessels were an appropriate number to burst, this time. Kitten? Where did that come from?

"Why are you calling me that?" he asked, careful to control his voice lest she snap that damned gum more loudly than she already was. 

"Because," the bloody godmother replied, "it annoys you." Sara saw his face, scowling formidably over his book of Solarian runes, and nodded authoritatively.

"Yep. Your blood pressure has definitely risen ten points. Breathe, kitten." Then that damned Sara cackled, though in a definitely bubbly way. A bubbly cackle? Well, his fucking fairy godmother pulled that one off. A bubbly cackle. He resumed to chanting oh my God, oh my God, oh my God in his head. It was going to be a hard going from now on forwards. 

It had been a while after Eriol had nearly escaped from Sara by foiling her off on Nakuru, but they had ended in a hotly contested catfight. Eriol and Spinel were about to make bets on their girls, before Eriol caught himself and worried there might be repercussions if Sara found out that she had been bet on like a horse. So he had no choice but to take Sara along, after she had recovered from the catfight, to meet Tomoyo at some Café called the Sign of the Dove. He had been chanting oh my god a lot in his head today. Eriol looked at her suspiciously. If she was going to bring up hair one more time….

"You know you really should go to get your nails done, Eriol." Apparently they, or rather she had moved onto nails. Oh my God, oh my God. Eriol did not think that he was in denial anymore. Life was not fair.

Eriol parked the car, a superb supercharged Jaguar, and walked to the café. He especially liked its color, a hue that was nearly black but was not, with a silver-blue tint to it that was one of the rarest colors on a car in the world, since he and only a half-dozen or less individuals posessed it. Because it was sunny for a change, since it was this close to France here near the shores, and French culture had assimilated itself here. Calais was not too far away. Tomoyo would be waiting for him.

A polite waiter showed him to a secluded little table near an enormous window that showcased the glittering water of the English Channel, Eriol couldn't help but notice that Tomoyo had many men sneaking furitive glances at her when they thought that no one noticed. He had to admit that she did invoke admiration and curiosity.

Sunlight caught her hair and made it a living thing, colored like night yet shimmering with the fire of diamonds. She wore pearl drop earrings and expensive perfume, perhaps Coco Mademoiselle, and everything that she wore, down from the Italian leather sandals to the linen shirt, to the short silk skirt fantastically embroidered, shouted of wealth and breeding. He gave her his best smile, and could practically feel all eyes on they two.

"You seem to be quite admired, Daidouji-san."  He said teasingly in Japanese. No French here. Tomoyo looked up at him, her lips glittering as she spoke, and greeted him with a saucy tongue.

"I am used to it." She said dismissively. "People will stare, but they do not see as much as they think." Eriol cocked his head as he seated himself. Sara had excused herself to use the restroom. 

"Do they not, Daidouji-san? Why ever not?" Tomoyo gave him a direct look. The look seemed to say, there is no need to be preverse and speak aloud what we both have known for a time as long as time. Then she gave a little laugh. A bit bitter, perhaps, but truly good-natured and graceful. It seemed that she had accepted her life and the way that things were a long time ago.

"Come Hiiragizawa-kun, let us speak of happier things." 

"Of course, Daidouji-san, if you will insist." 

"I do, Hiiragizawa-kun. So tell me, how big is the coincidence that you and I met in the same club, in the same country at the same time?" She queried.

"Not so large a coincidence as you think." Eriol said politely. "I had just recently returned from Munich, Germany, and before that, Lisbon, Hugary, and was planning to stay for a while. And you know how very exclusive that club was." 

Tomoyo nodded gracefully. "That is a very good point, Hiiragizawa-kun. How are Nakuru-san and Spinel-san?" 

Eriol continued to speak with her, first on his guardians, then on random subjects, before Sara returned. Eriol had found that he could relax in her presence, that she made him at his ease yet on guard for her sometimes penetrating stare and more penetrating questions. It was strange how he had never realized just how very kind she was, and charming as well. It had been nearly twenty minutes since Sara had left, and Eriol questioned her on her absence.

"Where have you been Sara? By the way, this is Tomoyo Daidouji. Daidouji-san, this is Sara." Tomoyo and Sara exchanged polite, friendly greetings, though Sara was more casual as Tomoyo answered with an easy grace.

"Oh, I just met with a friend while I was returning to the table, and my apologies, for I had to speak with her. I suppose I lost track of time." Sara dismissed his question airily.

"Eriol, I think that I will forgo this luncheon, and go shopping with her instead at Harrod's. Please forgive my rudeness." Eriol nodded. 

"I will pick you up from Harrod's, the main entrance, say at four o'clock?" Sara nodded quickly.

"See you later, kitten! Good day to you, Miss Daidouji." Sara inclined her head, and left.

Tomoyo turned to him with an amused, speculative glance.

"I see you met with the girl from the club after all, Hiiragizawa-kun." Eriol nearly choked on his drink.

"No! I mean, that is I mean to say that I discovered we are old friends from the university, and lost touch after a while. That was why she stared at me." Tomoyo nodded, and accepted his explanation. Not for very long, though.

"If you say so, kitten." Eriol tried his best not to scowl.

"Why the sarcasm, Daidouji-san? Don't you believe me?" Eriol gave a look of mock piety.

"No Eriol, I don't believe I do." Eriol pretended to look shocked, and widened his eyes to the size of saucers.

"Why ever not? What would make you every doubt me?" Tomoyo laughed at his charades.

"Dear Hiiragizawa-kun, I may not know the English culture as well as you, but I daresay that I think you would need some sort of relationship in order to have a girl call you kitten." Tomoyo replied laughingly. 

"Really, Hiiragizawa-kun! There's no need to lie to me. You can tell me all about it." Eriol placed a hand over his heart with a terribly overdone sigh.

"It wounds my heart that you would think I would ever, ever lie." Tomoyo merely laughed at him.

 When Eriol later finished the luncheon with Tomoyo and drove off, it was nearly four o'clock and he met Sara right as she was exiting the department store, loaded with three enormous shopping bags. Really, he did not think she would go shop when she could just zap nail polishes or hair products into existence at will. 

Sara was uncharacteristically silent on the way home, before Eriol turned to look at her and saw that she was staring at him. It wasn't any ordinary stare from the more mundane women, but it was an unwavering, terribly disarming stare that made him twitch and feel extremely nervous. He would have prefered anything, even her bloody chewing gum, to that frightening stare. It was making him itch. She was silent as she continued to stare at him through the rest of the carride, and he wondered why her eyes didn't water because she never blinked.

He got out politely and opened the door for her, as well as carried her shopping bags, before they got in the house. Sara was still staring at him. That stare was now officially frightening him, and finally he snapped, irritated,

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Sara only shook her head. Suddenly, she glided forward so fast and took his head in her hands when a cold chill ran through him, but by the time he reacted she released his head with a satisfied smile. Eriol felt a bit dizzy, but that was all.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" He demanded.

"Oh, I just granted you your wish. Relax kitten." Sara replied noncommitally. She was turning back to normal, getting out a new lipstick and trying it out in the large hall mirror. Eriol gaped at her like an idiot. 

"And what would that wish be? Why didn't you warn me? What the fuck did you do?!" Sara gave him a disapproving look, that one that women had perfected so well.

"Language, Eriol. Apparently its going downhill again. The wish I granted to you is love." She stated. 

"I know about love!" Eriol erupted. "I don't bloody need you to give it to me." Sara rolled her eyes, and resumed snapping her gum.

"True love, [snap] kitten. I granted you love, and now you are [snap] officially in love with Tomoyo. I decided it a while back when I was watching you two in the bathroom. I'm leaving kitten, and I'll be back sometime to [snap] check up on your progress on your love. It's been nice knowing you kitten, even if you do [snap] have bad language." 

Sara took up her bags, as Eriol followed her out to the front porch. She snapped her gum all the way there. She paused, blinked, and then a bright red Alfa Romeo convertible was in his driveway. Eriol continued to gape at her silently. He was beginning to feel a bit stupid, but he found himself at a loss for words.

Sara got into the car and threw her bags in the back, and revved up the engine. 

"Bye kitten! Its been nice [snap] knowing you!" she shouted over the engine as she pulled out.

"Later, kitten!" And her wheels squealed down the street, and she was gone. Eriol closed his mouth with a snap. 

Bloody, bloody women. 

There. The plot is set. How was it? Okay? It might get a bit angsty, but I'll love you if you review. 


	3. By Fortuna's Hand

Tomoyo Introspection  
  
There are some who are meant to suffer, some who have been smiled upon and embraced by Fate. And there are those whom Lady Luck has turned her face from. They are those who suffer. Like me.  
  
Yes, as I sit in this café, sitting like a Grecian Venus come to life, as some may say, a veritable objet d'art. An object of art, it means. I have been told that I am brilliantly intellectual, beautiful beyond the spoken word, as poetic as the French tongue, with the sound of angels sighing.  
  
They wax poetic.  
  
All flattery seemed to have only skimmed the most superficial surface of myself, and does not touch me like it might do unto others. For years, Lady Luck had beamed vibrantly towards me and Fate having begrudged me all happiness. Is it so possible, that I would possess all that I have ever wanted, except what Fate would choose to bestow to me.  
  
And Fortuna, that merciless force, by her hand She denied me what I wanted. And what did I do? I did nothing. What in our lives does not depend sometimes on luck? Your beauty, by the unseen hand of luck. Your intellect, bestowed by the genetic instructions written into your bones. Your social prowess, all by upbringing which may vary. All of these, the making of perfection, bestowed by luck.  
  
These things I had in profusion. Even my darling untouchable Eriol, he is touched by exquisiteness when so untouchable, but he saw me and I could tell, he was thinking, touche. I had not seen him for so quite a while that he had acquired a beauty of his own, an equal to any male I have ever seen. But I digress. I had a fortune that needed not to be earned, from a loving, lavishing mother, I had talent, given to me by genes, social grace, gifted from years of business dinner parties. Purely ordained by fate.  
  
What do these things mean to me, in the face of the fact that I have not the one I truly want? They mean all the world. The great philosophers might claim that without love one's soul is barren, that one had nothing, but with my fragmented, wounded pride I could repair myself by wrapping myself in the trappings of luxury, of being envied and adored and loved. From a distance.  
  
A silver Lambourghini, a mansion in Monte Carlo, another on the French Riviera, a large yacht, a tres haute boutique couture on Saks Fifth Avenue, Les Champs-Elysees, and anywhere else I desired. The void left by her I filled with designing clothes that even the great Versaces admired and profoundly praised. No, I would not say I am decrepit from lack of love. I am utterly without bitterness or brittle humour, and have accomplished much.  
  
Ah, and of course men. Being gifted with enough beauty and the talent to play that beauty correctly, I could really make them suffer at will, if I so desired. But I befriended them after supposedly trying to date them, though none of them really understood this enigma that is myself, thatI, even I cannot completely comprehend. So I dated the rich and famous, sometimes a combination of both, and made headlines occasionally, and was, as I have said, envied and adored and loved. And also, as I have said, from a very great distance.  
  
I was really starving for companionship, as I have a profound and inexplicable inability to become companions with anyone, especially females. Males, they were friends, but I knew that most of the time they spoke to me in hopes of a date or a kiss; they did not speak to me merely to speak with me. And females. After her, how I did try. Shopping and movies and all those inane little things; they none of them worked to gain simple friends. I wonder why. Perhaps it is simply because since Luck has decided, that devious power, that since I had so many of other things that I would need to lack something.  
  
Truly, I did not understand why they were unwilling to become friends with me. Oh, they will tolerate my presence so they look better in a big group, or so they will not go alone. But I cannot comprehend why none of them are willing to make a deep connection with me, as she had once. But she is far away now, and cannot help me. I would never let on to her, even if she were near. No, I would never.  
  
Eriol. I feel regretful for flirting with him, using my feminine wiles, as some would say. For after the luncheon at the petite café, I saw in his eyes, the next time I saw him at a movie we went together to see, the look of a wild infatuation. Poor Eriol. I suspect, no, I know for sure that he despises himself for it because so many countless hordes have been in his shoes, that he is only the one of many. And he does not like to be so indistinguished. It always makes me feel a little sad, perhaps a trifle guilty, when they become infatuated. For I could never make them happy as their good souls deserve, that they only yearn for forbidden fruit that is not so sweet as it appears.  
  
He is wasting his time on me, I believe. I could not make him happy, or remotely content. But I wish so that some good young woman would come, and save him from this trap that even I cannot control. And she would be the luckiest woman on earth, for he is so utterly handsome, and charming enough for anyone. A beautiful face chiseled not by human hands, and a tall, lithe body gifted with the grace of his immortal years. And such a fine mind! Intellect given by those long, tranquil years of study, of thought, and of the wildly varying places he had been. He cannot go to waste, I believe. We are meant to love, and be loved in return.  
  
And I myself, you ask? No, I would never gift someone with my utterly detatchedness. For I float through life, feeling little except superficial emotions, sometimes vague pain and sadness and guilt. But other emotions, rarely do I taste their flavors. I am a solitary creature, one who exults in companionship, yet knows she was not made for it. Simply not deemed fit for it. This brings to mind the lyrics of a gorgeous song whose name I cannot seem to remember, "Sadness is beautiful, loneliness is tragical." For most, this is true. But one can be beautiful and tragical, can they not?  
  
I must redeem myself to him. I could not let him suffer. I could not lead him on with a sympathetic kindness, as I did so many others. I feel too little to require being loved, and him, I fear he would require more than I have to give. 


End file.
